


The Electric House of God, Forever

by velveteenshadowboxer



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Age Difference, Amoral behavior, Angst, Derek Has Issues, Developing Relationship, First Time, M/M, Oral Sex, Slow Build, Stiles is a little bit dark in this one, maybe more than a little bit, some canon divergence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-23
Updated: 2013-06-23
Packaged: 2017-12-15 22:29:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,641
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/854710
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/velveteenshadowboxer/pseuds/velveteenshadowboxer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The sheriff clears his throat. “You can tell me, you know. If he’s pressuring you. If he’s pushing you too far.” He hesitates. “You’re not afraid of him, are you?” he asks quietly.</p><p>Listening closely, Derek can just imagine Stiles’ amused smile, the way his mouth might quiver as he holds back a laugh. “No, Dad. He’s afraid of me.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Electric House of God, Forever

Stiles yanks at the collar of his ruined t-shirt, pulling up and peeling the damp material away from his sweaty skin. He gets caught somewhere in the middle, and with his face pressed against the fabric from the inside, the dark flecks of blood splattered against the white cotton create the impression of a ghostly face with drooping red eyes and jagged teeth.

Derek watches, and his eyes travel lower as the shirt rides up and the hem hooks gently under Stiles’ chin. He observes the journey of a solitary bead of moisture trailing from Stiles’ chest down to the waistband of his boxers peeking out above his jeans, and forces himself to look away once the boy - young man, if he's honest - finally succeeds in shedding his shirt.

“I should shower here,” Stiles says, scrubbing at the dirt on his upper arm. “You know, so my dad . . .” He trails off, looking up to meet Derek’s eye.

“Are you alright?” Derek asks quietly. It’s feels like a mantra now, he’s repeated the question so often. Stiles nods easily, expression betraying no hint of what he’s feeling.

“Yeah, I’m fine.” He shrugs. “A few scratches here and there, probably a bruise or two tomorrow, but nothing I can’t handle. Honestly, a yeti is a cakewalk compared to the fight with those pixies last month. Those fuckers are vicious.” His eyes narrow suspiciously. “What about you? Are you good?”

Derek leans against the doorframe, scratching at his arm. “Yes.”

Stiles frowns. “You sure?”

“I’m fine.” Derek inspects his fingernails carefully as if they’re the most interesting thing in the world. “Are you sure?” he pipes up after a minute, still not looking up.

Stiles’ mouth twitches. “Yes, I’m sure.” His tone is superficially exasperated, but Derek can hear the fondness beneath the annoyed surface. “Are we just going to go back and forth with this until one of us runs out of steam?”

Derek shrugs. “I’m just thinking that, well.” He coughs. “You were the one who had to kill it, in the end. And I want to make sure you’re okay. Okay?” He swallows, staring determinedly at a spot on the floor as Stiles strips out of his bloodied jeans and kicks them aside to pile on top of his shirt.

“Someone had to do it, dude. Might as well have been me.” The kid yawns, bringing a fist up to his mouth to stifle the noise. “To be honest, it actually feels good to be able to help out. In a real way, I mean, not just with research.”

“Research is a real help,” Derek says, surprised by the fierceness in his own voice.

“I know that. I just . . . yeah, I know that.”

“You do?”

“Yes.”

“Okay then.”

They stare at each other, silent and unmoving until the squeal of tires on the asphalt outside signals Isaac’s return. Stiles fidgets awkwardly. “So. About that shower?” Derek waves him upstairs.

“Sure, go ahead.” Stiles slides by him to round the corner, oblivious as the werewolf surreptitiously sniffs at his neck. Derek pinches the bridge of his nose, grunting out a vague acknowledgement when Isaac enters through the front door.

“I like the renovations, by the way,” Stiles calls from somewhere up above. Derek grunts in response.

Nearly 17 now, the sly voice in his head tells him suggestively. “Shut up,” he mutters to himself aloud.

*****

It’s a faerie queen next, impossibly tall and wiry and somehow terrifyingly beautiful and ugly at the same time. They manage to corner her at the abandoned plasticware factory on the outskirts of town before she finally stops running and turns to fight. She manages to knock Isaac unconscious and nearly rip Peter’s head off his shoulders before Scott and Stiles show up to join in the fray.

They win in the end, as always. Derek stabs her through the chest with his claw, and when she feebly tries to push him away, Stiles kicks her over the railing. She falls two stories before landing on her neck and severing her spine.

Derek gets an earful from Scott the entire walk back to the road.

“You can’t keep dragging him into your bullshit,” the younger werewolf growls, eyes blazing and hands balled into fists at his sides. “You want to get yourself killed, be my guest, but leave Stiles out of it.”

“Stiles is right here, thanks,” Stiles says dully, though with no real heat. He scrubs at his shoulder, frowning at the smear of jet-black blood staining his sleeve. “Damn it, another shirt ruined . . .”

“Stiles is going to do whatever the fuck he wants one way or the other, regardless of what I say,” Derek retorts, glaring at Scott. “I’m not dragging him into anything. You two are the ones who keep pushing your way into our business.”

Scott’s fists clench. “Saving innocent people is all of our business. You just suck at it. Your plans always end with somebody dead.”

Derek snarls, and it looks for a moment as though things might turn ugly before Stiles cuts in. “Dude, not that I’m defending Derek’s leadership skills or anything, but I’m not sure what else we could have done differently in this particular circumstance. She was taking kids, Scott. Sacrificing them. There wasn’t any other way.”

Scott’s eye twitches. He turns away from Derek and marches off in the direction of the Jeep. “Let’s just go.”

Stiles rolls his eyes. “Yeah, I’ll be right there.” He turns back to the others, sparing a brief, distrustful glance in Peter’s direction before focusing in on Derek. “Are we all good here?”

Derek nods. “Yes.”

“Okay, good.” Stiles turns to follow after Scott, pausing to add, “Remember you have my number. Next time, just call when shit is about to hit the fan. I’m tired of these territorial pissing matches between you two.”

Isaac makes a soft noise that sounds suspiciously like agreement, but when Derek looks at him, his expression is completely neutral. Peter just looks amused.

Derek sighs. “Come on.”

Peter goes upstairs to crash the minute the three of them return to the house. Derek flops down on the couch and closes his eyes, tries to calm his racing mind. He can’t.

Isaac ends up coming back downstairs around 2:00 in the morning, hesitating at the bottom of the steps. “Nightmare,” he mumbles sheepishly in response to Derek’s raised eyebrow.

“Oh.”

Derek scoots over to make room. Isaac offers a small, grateful smile and plops down heavily in the empty space. “Sorry,” he says.

“Don’t be.”

They lie head to toe in silence, staring up at the ceiling as the crickets chirp outside. Derek blinks, and the image of a pale face flashes across his mind; long blonde hair and cold dead eyes.

“It wasn’t your fault,” Isaac murmurs a few seconds later, like some sort of mind reader. “You didn’t kill her.”

I might as well have, Derek thinks but doesn’t say. He says, “Okay.”

Isaac squirms, toes flexing as he tries to get comfortable. “Stiles seems different,” he says after a while. When Derek doesn’t reply, he nudges him gingerly with his foot. “Don’t you think so?”

Derek twists to lie on his side, turning so Isaac can’t see his face. “I haven’t thought about it. Go to sleep.” Isaac snorts.

“I don’t need to have heightened senses to know that’s bullshit.”

Derek’s lip curls. “Sleep.”

They’re both quiet after that, and Isaac doesn’t speak up again until Derek is very nearly asleep. “I’m a little scared of him.”

It’s whispered, soft enough that Derek isn’t certain he was even intended to hear it. Which is just as well. He doesn’t have anything to say.

*****

It’s just the two of them next time; Derek and Stiles trapped together (of course) in a compressed wooden crate, slowly sinking into the tar pits 15 miles outside Beacon Hills.

“Anytime you feel like busting us out of here, you can be my guest,” Stiles snarks, his breath tickling Derek’s neck from his close proximity. The boy’s voice is steady enough, but Derek can hear the jackrabbit pitter-patter of his heart going crazy.

Derek flinches as a big glob of tar oozes through a crack in the panels and splatters against his leg. “Shut up and let me think for a minute.” He stretches upward, bracing himself against the walls of the crate with his hands and feet, chest heaving up and down from the exertion of trying to snap the lid open.

“How many were there?” Stiles asks, gasping slightly as he slips in the goop and grabs ahold of Derek’s biceps to stop his fall.

Derek swallows as the kid’s fingers squeeze around his muscles, and he sends a mental note to his dick to stay the fuck under control. “How many what?”

“The hunters. Did you see how many there were? We’re gonna have to deal with that shit once we get out of here.”

The wood groans as it begins to bend. Derek grits his teeth as the crack in the wall widens and the flow of tar quickens. “Not many. Maybe four. Three men and a woman, I think.” He grunts and ducks his head, knees buckling.

Stiles kicks off his shoes and starts peeling off his clothes. Derek hears the rustling and frowns. “They’ll just weigh me down,” Stiles explains readily. “This is going to be hard enough as it is.”

The nails squeak as they start to come loose from the wood. Derek tenses in anticipation. “Hold on to me if you don’t want to drown,” he says before the crate practically explodes outward.

Stiles takes a quick breath and wraps his arms around Derek’s middle, squeezing his eyes shut before the world goes dark. By normal human standards, they’d be fucked as all get out. But Derek is no human, and difficult as it is, his frantic kicking through the black muck manages to propel them far enough upward for him to grab ahold of a thick vine dangling over the edge of the pit.

They spill out onto the grass, gasping for air and dragging themselves as far away from the ooze as possible. Derek rolls over onto his back, blinking rapidly up at the stars and taking in deep, grateful gulps of fresh forest air. He hears the snap of twigs under feet and freezes, craning his neck to look at Stiles.

The kid is stark naked and covered from head to foot in tar, crouched on all fours and searching through the undergrowth. He makes a quiet, triumphant noise and pulls a sharp stick out from beneath a thorny bush.

“What are you-” Derek starts, jaw snapping shut when Stiles makes a shushing gesture. The boy points silently off to the left, and Derek turns to be greeted by the sound of nearby laughter and the smell of smoke; the hunter’s campsite.

Stiles ducks low and darts off through the trees before Derek can protest.

“God damn it.”

Derek sheds what remains of his tattered clothing. He wolfs out silently and stalks towards his prey under the cover nightfall.

The hunters have their guard down, prematurely celebrating with a case of beer, all kicked back lazily by the fire. Only the woman - a tall blonde with a crooked nose - looks slightly on edge, glancing suspiciously every now and then towards the tree line. Derek’s hackles raise, a low growl threatening to rise up in his chest as he prepares to attack.

“What of the others?” one of the men hiccups, tossing his empty bottle over his shoulder and popping open the cooler for another. “The old Alpha and the curly-haired boy?”

“We’ll track them down in the morning,” another - the leader, by the look of him - says. “Shouldn’t be too hard to find. A disorganized lot like this is never too -”

He cuts off with a strangled gurgle, eyes bulging and hands scrabbling at his suddenly dripping throat, trying to remove the stick Stiles has jabbed through the back of his neck and out the front. The other hunters leap to their feet with a cry, but before any of them can raise their guns, Derek charges out of hiding spot with a roar and tackles the closest man to the ground.

It’s quick and bloody, and soon only the woman remains alive.

“Animals!” she shrieks, holding back a sob as she tries to drag herself away from the slaughter. “Filthy fucking beasts! We’ll kill you all! Every last one of -”

Stiles smashes a heavy rock over her head, caving in a large chunk of her skull. She drops instantly, and all is silent.

They put out the fire and pile the bodies into the hunters’ car before pushing it into the tar pit. Derek watches it sink, breathing hard, still somewhat high on adrenaline from the fight. He turns to Stiles.

“You’ve gotten good at that,” he says.

Stiles looks at him. “Good at what?”

“Killing.” Even to his own ears, Derek’s not sure if he sounds proud or disgusted. Neither emotion seems particularly appropriate.

Stiles flinches, looking incredibly young and vulnerable for a moment before his face hardens into carefully composed indifference. “Practice makes perfect, I guess.” He shies away from Derek’s gaze, as though he’s suddenly remembering his nakedness. He folds his arms across his chest and shivers. “If I didn’t know any better, I’d seriously consider the possibility that the master plan of all the assholes we have to deal with is to destroy my entire wardrobe. I’m going to have to buy all new clothes at this rate.”

Derek sighs tiredly, averting his eyes to grant the kid some privacy. “Come on. Let’s get you showered and dressed.”

Stiles follows him through the trees. “Lead the way,” he says, and Derek represses a shudder at the unmistakable heat in his voice.

*****

Nothing happens between them that night, however. Nothing happens between them at all until about a week later when Stiles shows up on Derek’s doorstep in the early afternoon with his backpack slung over his shoulder and a book in his hand.

“So Scott and I think it’s a witch,” he says with no preamble, shoving his way past Derek without waiting for an invitation. “The one who’s responsible for all those ritualistic murder sites popping up. Deaton agrees with us.”

“Yes, Stiles. Please come in,” Derek mutters, closing the door and following Stiles back into the house. He crosses his arms and leans against the wall as the boy plops down in a chair by the table and opens up the book.

“Deaton says the raven feathers are bad news. Supposedly, they’re only used in summoning sacrifices, and it’s a pretty safe bet that whatever she’s trying to summon is probably going to be a pain in the ass for us.”

Derek rubs his forehead. “You’re not in my pack, Stiles,” he growls. “Why are you here?”

Stiles pauses in his reading to meet Derek’s eye, looking terribly unimpressed. “You know, it would save both of us a lot of time and energy if we could just suck it up and agree that, from time to time, it’s to our mutual benefit to work together against to stop the bad guys.”

“The ‘bad guys?’ Really?” It takes all of Derek’s effort to resist rolling his eyes. “You sound like a kid when you say things like that.”

“I am a kid,” Stiles fires back immediately, and there’s something a little too knowing in the meaningful look he fixes Derek with before turning back to his book.

Derek’s stomach clenches. He walks stiffly over and sits down in the chair opposite Stiles’. “What else does the good doctor say?” he asks icily.

They go over the plan together for the next hour or so. At some point during that time, Isaac comes downstairs from his nap and freezes when he sees the two of them sitting together. Running a hand through his sleep-tussled hair, he raises an eyebrow at Derek in a silent question, as if to say, All good? Derek waves him on.

It’s around 2:30 when they finish up, and Derek feels himself sweating through his t-shirt from the suffocating heat in the house. He absently makes a mental note to buy a new air conditioner.

Stiles closes the book and yawns, stretching his arms high above his head. His shirt rides up a bit, exposing a sliver of skin and a dark trail of hair running down from his bellybutton to his underwear. Derek stares.

He looks up to find Stiles watching him with a quietly nervous expression. They watch each other for nearly a full minute without uttering a word.

Derek clears his throat. “You’re not in my pack,” he says slowly, reiterating his earlier statement. “You could be, though. Maybe you should be.”

“I’m not in a pack,” Stiles answers after a short pause. “But if I was, I would be in Scott’s.”

“Why?” Derek asks.

Stiles frowns disbelievingly. “He’s my best friend. Also, you and I can’t stand each other.”

“I’m better at this than him,” Derek says stubbornly. Stiles shakes his head.

“You’re really not.”

Derek grits his teeth. “I can stand you,” he mutters. “Although you make it incredibly fucking difficult most of the time.”

Stiles’ mouth twitches in an almost-smile. “Well, thanks. Right back at you.”

Derek stands up to stretch his legs, walking over to the window. “You are . . . a complication,” he says after a minute, gazing out through the glass, looking at nothing.

“So I’ve been told. My dad once threatened to legally change my name to Little Demon Child when I was little and I spray-painted racing stripes on his cruiser because I thought it would make it go faster.”

Derek snorts. “He did not.”

Stiles chuckles. “He did so, according to Scott’s mom. Although I’ve never been able to tell when she’s making shit up.”

“Maybe Peter should have bitten her,” Derek says, only mostly joking. Stiles makes a weird, muted sound.

“Our lives would definitely have turned out differently if that had been the case.” He cracks his knuckles and stands up, walking out into the main room. For a second, Derek thinks he’s left, but then he hears the audible thump of a body dropping down onto the couch. He follows, pausing in the doorway. Stiles sprawls out lazily on the soft cushions, one arm thrown up over his eyes.

Derek slides down to the floor and sits cross-legged. He picks at his fingernails. “I’m not sure I know how to be a good person anymore,” he says, hating himself for doing this - for airing out his dirty laundry in front of a teenage boy - but not enough to stop the words from flowing. “I’m not even sure I ever was to begin with.”

Stiles doesn’t talk for a long time, and Derek can’t get a read on his expression with his eyes covered. And then, “I don’t know, dude. I’m hardly innocent myself.”

Derek scowls. “You are compared to me.”

“Wow, really?” Stiles lifts his arm and shoots Derek a withering glare. “We’re playing ‘my suffering is worse than your suffering?’ I mean, yeah, you totally win. By like, a landslide. But seriously, dude. Your tall-dark-and-handsome broodiness only takes you so far before all the self-pity overshadows everything else you’ve got going on.”

Derek scoffs. “Don’t call me dude.” He sits up straighter. “And stop being a smart-ass. Ever consider that maybe I have a little more life experience than you, and that I actually understand some things that perhaps you don’t?”

Stiles flops around to lie on his stomach, burying his face in one of the couch pillows. “I don’t have to have your life experience to know that the simple act of being an adult doesn’t guarantee that you know what the fuck you’re doing,” he says, voice muffled. “The Argents come to mind.”

Derek glares at the back of his head. “I’m trying to actually communicate here,” he grumbles. “I would have thought you’d enjoy this more. Talking incessantly is sort of your forte.”

“Hah hah. Also, I’m having a ball here. Are you not?” Stiles lifts his head a bit to look at Derek out of his right eye. “Hmm?”

Derek huffs out a weary, humorless laugh. “You’re infuriating.” Stiles grins triumphantly.

“I’m the best.”

Something breaks loose inside Derek, relieving the tension in his chest. He stands up and walks over to the couch. “Fuck it,” he mutters. He grabs Stiles by the back of the neck, pulling gently to make him sit up.

Stiles twists to stare up at him, eyes going wide. “What are you doing?”

Derek takes a deep breath. “Taking advantage of you,” he says, trying for teasing but not really kidding at all. And then he closes his eyes and presses his mouth against Stiles’.

*****

It starts out with kisses; just sloppy making out on the couch, and then on the bed once they move upstairs. And then they lose their clothes, and everything seems 100% more real and a great deal more dangerous. Derek’s amazed by how briefly Stiles hesitates before stripping off his boxers and lying back on the mattress completely exposed. Not that the boy hasn’t been naked in front of him before, but this is an entirely different context and most teenagers tend to react a little more self-consciously. Especially virgins.

“What?” Stiles asks after Derek stands there for a few seconds without moving, and he does sound a little insecure now.

Derek shakes himself off and climbs up on the bed with him, seizing Stiles’ wrists and pinning them above his head. “Nothing. You’re just . . . confident.”

Stiles squirms, flushing red down from his face to his chest. “I’m not,” he murmurs breathlessly, swallowing hard as Derek bends down to kiss his neck. “I’m fucking terrified. But I know what this is. I know you’re not going to cuddle with me after and tell me you love me, and then take me out to dinner later.” He shrugs as best he can with his arms pinned. “There’s a sort of comfort that comes with being free of the unknown.”

Derek presses his nose into Stiles’ armpit and breathes. He lets go of the boy’s arms and runs his hands over the smooth planes of his chest; there’s more muscle tone than he was expecting, and although it’s a superficial factor, it still makes his cock stir. “Who talks like that?” he says softly, kissing and licking his way down Stiles’ belly.

“Apparently I do,” Stiles laughs, breath hitching in his chest when Derek’s mouth and tongue are suddenly all over his cock. “Jesus, fuck -” His fists tighten on the bedsheets, and he bites down on his lip to hold back a groan.

Derek pulls off briefly to look up at him. “No, be loud. I want to hear you enjoy it.”

Stiles’ face goes through a complicated series of changes. He makes a strange, garbled noise. “Figures. Of course you’re so considerate and attentive now.” He swallows thickly and bursts into nervous giggling. Looking closer, Derek realizes with a thrill of horror that there are tears in his eyes. He tries to back off, but Stiles’ legs come up quickly and hook around his back, drawing him in. “No, don’t stop. Just let me have my panic attack in peace, alright?”

“Okay.” Derek glances down at Stiles’ still-hard dick, then back up to his face. He can him trembling. “We don’t have to if you-”

“Oh, for f-” Stiles blinks away his tears and glares up at Derek. “I want to do this. All of this. Anything you want to do, I want that too.” He flops back down, looking away. His cheeks flush with embarrassment. “I’ve never done this before, okay? I’m just a little freaked out. You’re about to suck my dick. You’re probably going to fuck me later. It’s weird and scary, and I do better with scary shit when I just dive right into it, so pretty please with sugar and fucking cherry on top, just get on with it!”

Derek blinks. And then he smirks. “As you wish, your majesty.”

Stiles’ retort is lost in a groan as Derek bends back between his legs and swallows him down.

*****

They sit together on the bed for a while after redressing, neither one quite able to look the other in the face. Derek sits rigid and unmoving. Stiles fidgets uncomfortably. A dark, purplish bruise sticks out from under the collar of his shirt, and Derek feels a perverse twinge of possessive pride when he chances a peek at it.

“I think I know . . .” Stiles begins slowly, then stops. He bites his lip. “I think I can guess pretty much everything you want to say. Why it was a mistake, why it shouldn’t happen again. How guilty you feel.” He sighs and rubs the back of his head, grimacing. “And I just don’t-” He looks up. “Can we maybe skip that part?”

Derek shrugs. “Okay.”

Stiles looks simultaneously relieved and disappointed. “I feel like this was bound to happen one way or another,” he says. “I saw the way you looked at me, even back when you really hated me.” His mouth twists into a half-smile. “As opposed to the way you mostly tolerate me now.”

Derek snorts.

“Anyway. I saw and I knew, and I knew that you knew how I looked at you. And what with the constant threat of death hanging over our heads combined with our trust issues and sexual frustration, it’s no real surprise that we ended up here.”

“Yeah.” Derek nods. “Maybe so.”

“For sure so.” Stiles pushes himself off of the bed and walks slowly to the door. He pauses with his hand on the handle. “I’ll see you when I see you?”

Derek looks down at his feet. “That would be a safe bet.”

He doesn’t look back up until he hears the sound of the Jeep’s tires rolling away on the gravel outside.

*****

Derek runs into Chris Argent at the grocery store, and remarkably, it doesn’t end in bloodshed.

“You look well,” Chris says, after a few tense moments of icy silence. Derek shakes his head stiffly.

“We’re not doing this.” He tries to push past, but Chris puts a hand on his cart and keeps him in place.

“Fine, no small talk.” He straightens up to his full height, fixing Derek with a weirdly passive stare; like he’s trying both to intimidate and seem less threatening at the same time. “I just got a call from an old acquaintance last night. He’s thinking of coming up here with some hunting buddies.” He says the last bit with a meaningful raise of an eyebrow.

Derek glowers. “For us?”

“No.” Chris glances around, ensuring no one can hear. He leans in closer, whispers, “They’ve been tracking a troll. All the way from Mexico. They’re just passing through, so I recommend laying low while they’re here, if you can manage it.”

“And you’re sharing this . . . why?” Derek’s eyes narrow suspiciously. “Out of the goodness out of your heart.”

Chris leans away, annoyance contorting his features before they relax into weary defeat. “In case you haven’t heard, I and what remains of my family have chosen to pursue a new line of work. We’re no longer a threat to you. The truce holds.”

“Personal revelations about your idiocy aside,” Derek snarks, “you still haven’t explained why you’re bothering with any sort of warning. Why should I trust your word?”

Chris lets go of Derek’s shopping cart and starts pushing his own towards the registers up front. “My goals now are the same as ever, Hale. I want to avoid as many deaths as possible.”

He shoves past roughly and doesn’t look back. Derek lets him go.

*****

The troll rears back to full height, bellowing as it swings out blindly and knocks three of the hunters into a nearby tree. Two more hunters rush forward with their rifles raised, firing repeatedly. One is dispatched quickly with a swift kick to the head, while the other is lifted screaming into the air and subsequently silenced as his head smashes to pieces against a nearby rock.

“Peter!” Derek yells, whistling loudly to try and draw the beast on a path headed away from the town.

“Working on it, nephew!” The older werewolf darts out from the trees and nimbly scales his way up the troll’s back. Reaching the top, he jabs his claws into the creature’s neck and twists, cutting and slashing and sending dark green ooze splattering to the forest floor.

The troll roars and swats Peter away, knocking him to the ground.

“Backup’s on the way!” Isaac shouts, running to Derek’s side. The Alpha stands in front of him protectively, wincing as the troll stomps another hunter to bits.

“Backup from who?”

Isaac’s response is lost in the overwhelming din as the last hunter standing lobs a grenade into the air. The explosion shatters the trunks of at least three trees, and Derek pushes Isaac to the ground and shields him with his body as chunks of wood and debris come raining down.

As the dust clears, he hears an ear-splitting shriek. The troll, limping badly and bleeding from a deep cut in its side, seizes the hunter in its hand and chomps down on his neck.

“It’s wounded,” Derek says, helping Isaac to his feet. “Now’s our chance.”

The troll spits the mangled carcass of its victim on the ground, then turns to bare its bloody teeth at the werewolves, snarling.

Twin beams of light erupt through the bushes and the all-too-familiar squeal of an immediately recognizable vehicle’s tires catches the troll’s attention about a second before the Jeep flies over the ridge and slams into the beast’s face.

“Holy shit,” Isaac breathes. Derek just stares, wide-eyed.

Stiles kicks open the driver’s side door, looking dizzy and confused. He glances at the monster’s now-headless corpse before turning a mournful gaze to survey the wreckage. “You had a good run, baby,” he sighs, patting the Jeep’s crumpled hood.

The passenger’s side door flies off as Scott topples out and promptly vomits. He stumbles around to Stiles’ side and glares. “What the hell?!?! That wasn’t the plan, dude! You could have killed us both!”

Stiles flaps a dismissive hand. “You’re fine, buddy. And even if you weren’t, you would have healed.”

“But you wouldn’t have!”

“I knew there was a reason you were my favorite,” Peter drawls, sauntering over to survey the scene. He leers at Stiles hungrily.

“That was fucking insane,” Isaac says with grudging admiration, walking over to examine the troll’s body, his mouth twisting upward in a lopsided grin.

Derek shakes his head disbelievingly. “What,” he mutters numbly. He stares at Stiles. The kid grins.

“And the human comes to your rescue yet again,” he says cheekily. “Seat of the pants innovation trumps grumpy rawr-power any day of the week!” Derek’s eyes narrow.

“Grumpy rawr-power?”

The Jeep sputters pathetically and spits out a black cloud of smoke. Stiles’ grin fades, replaced by resigned weariness. “Not sure how I’m going to explain this one to my dad. Or how any of us are going to explain the fucking giant corpse over there.”

“I’ll deal with that,” Peter sing-songs, strutting over to join Isaac by the body. “Lend a hand, won’t you?”

Scott wipes at his mouth, spitting on the ground before straightening and letting out a dramatic, put-upon sigh. “I guess I’ll go help them,” he grumbles.

Derek reaches out without thinking and puts his hand on Stiles’ shoulder. “I’ll drive you home,” he says. “You should be there when your father gets back.”

Stiles opens his mouth, pauses, then snaps it shut. He nods. Scott shoots Derek a suspicious look, but he doesn’t say anything; he just claps Stiles on the back and runs after Peter and Isaac. Derek and Stiles meander off into the thickets, deep into the dark in search of the road.

*****

They don’t make it to the house before Derek has to stop. Fingernails digging harshly into the steering wheel, he pulls over to the side of the road and unhooks his seatbelt, nearly smacking himself in the face in his haste.

“We’ve ruined you,” he murmurs in between kisses, running his hands over Stiles’ face reverentially, like he’s afraid the boy will vanish if he stops touching him. “We’re supposed to protect you, and you’ve turned into this thing . . .”

Stiles tilts his head back and fists his hand in Derek’s hair, biting back a groan as Derek laps greedily at his neck. “You sure know what to say to make a girl feel special,” he deadpans.

“I’m serious.” Derek buries his face against Stiles’ chest, nosing at the collar to expose more skin. “If nothing else, I wanted you to get out of this place alive and sane. I wanted you to be good.”

“That’s big talk from a guy who fucked a 16-year-old. A guy who’s probably about to do it again.” He chuckles when he feels Derek tense up. “Hey, if you get to beat yourself up about it, I get to beat you up about it.”

Derek sighs, wrapping his arms around Stiles’ middle and holding him tight. He never wants to let go. “Like I said, I’m not a good person. I never was.”

He glances up and sees that Stiles’ expression has gone soft. “And like I said,” the kid whispers gently, “neither am I.” He touches Derek’s cheek. “I was never a good person either.”

Derek makes a fist around Stiles’ belt and yanks it off. He fumbles at the jeans button, craning his neck to lick his way back into the boy’s mouth. “We’re so damaged,” he mumbles, meaning it as a joke but hearing the truth in it nonetheless.

Stiles returns the kiss with enthusiasm, wrapping his arms around Derek’s back and clinging tight, snaking one of his hands up under Derek’s shirt. “We’ll be okay,” he reassures. Derek rocks his hips forward, eyes flashing red at Stiles’ resulting gasp. He hums approvingly as the boy spreads his legs.

“We won’t.”

*****

Scott shows up on his front porch early the next morning. “I know,” he says simply, forgoing any sort of commonplace greeting.

Derek doesn’t bother with pretending not to understand. There’s no point. “Okay.”

Scott crosses his arms, his face scrunching up in a complicated mixture of dislike and exhaustion. “I won’t tell, and I won’t try and stop you.” He snorts. “Like you’d listen to me anyway.”

Isaac clears his throat, standing up from his chair by the railing and slipping past Derek into the house. “I’m just gonna . . .” he mutters, disappearing out of sight.

“What do you want, Scott?” Derek asks quietly.

“I just wanted you to know,” Scott says. “That I know. And I know you don’t feel threatened by me, but if you hurt him, I will end you. That’s a promise. I haven't been the best friend to him recently, but tearing you apart will be a good start towards fixing that.”

Derek can’t help the smirk that spreads across his face. It’s stupid and there’s no reason to provoke a fight, but there’s just something about the kid that gets under his skin. “You’re right,” he says. “You’re not a threat.”

Scott just raises an eyebrow. “That’s not what I said.” He turns and walks away. Derek watches him leave, then turns to go back inside the house. Isaac is nowhere to be seen, but Peter is there, waiting for him.

“My, my,” he purrs mockingly. “What have you gotten yourself into, nephew dearest?”

Derek shoves past him. “Save it.”

*****

They go three weeks without disaster; three blissful weeks of peace and quiet, of sneaking off to the woods together for swim and sex. Derek’s pretty sure only a few others know about the spring down by Donelson’s Pike, and he revels in the opportunity to be the one to show it off for once.

“I used to come here with my family when I was a kid,” he says, surprised by the lack of twisting pain in his gut. It’s the first time he’s been able to speak of his parents since the fire without hurting. “My sisters and I would stand up there at the top of the waterfall and my dad would swim down below and yell for us to jump. Laura always did, but I was too chicken.”

Stiles squeezes his hand. “Come on,” he says and sheds his shirt, running for the edge. He leaps out over the falls and whoops, cannonballing down into the clear blue water below. Derek grins and follows.

They play at chase underwater, and once Derek catches Stiles by the leg, he can’t let go. He loves the feel of soft skin under his fingers, running his hand up Stiles’ back as the waterfall thunders down upon them. The boy arches into the touch and leans forward, catching Derek’s mouth in a sloppy kiss. Together, they sink down to touch the sand at the bottom of the spring.

“Would it be so bad for you to show this side of yourself more often?” Stiles asks later when they’re sprawled out on grass under the shadows of the trees. “I want you regardless, but I like you like this. You seem happy.”

“Happiness is dangerous,” Derek says sleepily, playing with Stiles’ hair. “It’s a drug, and the more you crave, the weaker you become. Moments like these can’t last forever.”

“That’s so sad,” Stiles murmurs. He traces the outline of Derek’s abs with his forefinger, watching the muscles jump under his touch. Derek kisses the top of his head.

“You’re young. You’ll know better when you’ve lived longer.”

Stiles twists to look at him. “You think I don’t know about loss? I don’t have to sit around and not die for a little while more before I gain that particular insight. I know plenty already.”

Derek squeezes his shoulder. “Okay.” Stiles makes a soft, frustrated noise.

“You’re always doing that. Pretending to agree so you don’t have to have a conversation you’re uncomfortable with. It’s a good thing that you’re able to talk about this at all, with anyone. Don’t shut down when it gets hard.”

Derek smiles self-deprecatingly. “I’ll try.”

Stiles nods. “You’d better.”

*****

“I’m not going ask,” Isaac says. “Because I don’t know anything.”

“Alright,” Derek replies, looking determinedly at a spot on the wall. “Then don’t ask.”

“I don’t know anything,” Isaac repeats slowly. “But I am worried about you. I’m worried that you’ve gotten in over your head.”

Derek’s fingernails dig into the chair, leaving jagged claw marks in the cushion. “You might be right about that.”

Isaac sighs. “Again,” he says after a minute of silence, sounding even timider than before, “I don’t know anything. And I’m not judging. But, you know . . . he’s my age. Which isn't very old at all.”

Derek has to count to ten to keep from biting his own tongue off. “I am well aware of that,” he says finally. “Believe me, I don’t need to be reminded.” Isaac squirms.

“Yeah, well. Okay. Just as long as you know what you’re doing.” Derek laughs mirthlessly.

“I’ve never known what I’m doing. I thought you would have guessed that by now.”

*****

Derek sees Allison across the street while he’s filling up the Camaro at the gas station. She looks more or less the same as she did when he saw her several months ago, although perhaps a bit paler. Somewhat gaunt, like she hasn’t gotten quite enough to eat.

She’s talking with Lydia, and though neither of them are smiling, they don’t look miserable. They’re eating ice cream and sitting together on the hood of Lydia’s car. It’s all very normal.

Allison brushes her hair out of her eyes and freezes, noticing Derek watching. They stare at each other unblinkingly as the cars zoom by. Derek’s not sure what his expression looks like - angry, guilty, tense, none of the above - but Allison’s left eye twitches in the ghost of a flinch, and she looks away first. She must say something to Lydia because the other girl looks up a few seconds later and catches Derek’s eye, her mouth thinning out dangerously.

They whisper in hushed tones, and then Lydia nudges Allison’s shoulder and the two clamber off the hood and go to toss away their cones. They get back in the car and drive away without sparing Derek a second glance.

The gas pump dings to signal the car is full, and Derek goes to remove the nozzle, heart beating a little faster than usual. He feels a little queasy, but he swallows back the bile and snatches the little printed receipt, climbs back in the car and turns the key.

*****

“Do you want to know what I think?” Peter asks, slinking out from the shadows to loom over Derek’s shoulder.

Derek taps at the keyboard and doesn’t look up. “Not even a little.”

Peter squats down beside him. “I think it’s good for you. You need a little more control in your life.”

“That’s rich, coming from you.”

“I mean it. The others might not be so understanding, but I am happy for you.”

Derek glares at the computer screen and doesn’t move until he hears his uncle’s footsteps fade away.

*****

The witch finally makes an appearance. Because of course she does.

Derek struggles, tied down at the altar by chains laced with wolfsbane. He stares up at the crucifix looming above, and the unseeing gold-flaked eyes of the Jesus sculpture stare back down at him. Silent and judging.

Isaac cries out in pain as the witch breaks his arm and kicks him aside like he's nothing but a rag doll. “Stay down, pup” she sneers, and turns to walk back up the center aisle of the church, back to the altar. “It will all be over soon, my pet,” she croons, stroking Derek’s cheek. “Just stay still and you won’t feel much of anything.”

Great bolts of blue lightning strike back and forth across the ceiling, smashing large chunks of the rafters to smithereens. The wood catches fire.

“To the Dark Lord Kȍv̊oṣhka, I offer this sacrifice!” the witch cries, hands held aloft. “Please accept my humble offering and rise forth from the darkness to guide your faithful servant’s hand!”

The silver bowl on the floor beneath the altar rattles. The liquid contents begin to swirl.

Derek grits his teeth, straining at his bindings with all his might. It’s no use. Craning his neck to look out over the rows of pews, he sees that Peter - the God damn coward - has fled and Isaac is still unconscious. Scott is crawling determinedly up the aisle, but his back is still broken. He’s not healing fast enough.

The witch trembles with excitement, unsheathing her dagger and raising it high. “On this, the holiest of nights, I-”

She cuts off with a gasp, eyes bulging in their sockets. Derek feels a thrill of triumph as he sees the blade of a dragon-glass katana sticking through the front of her chest. Stiles stands up from his hiding spot and drives the sword in deeper. “I’ll take that, thanks,” he hisses, snatching the dagger out of the witch’s hand and dropping it behind him before swinging the blade upward.

Derek closes his eyes as a shower of crimson rains down on the altar. The lightning above disappears, and one of the chandeliers comes loose as the burning support beam snaps in half. It all comes crashing down and obliterates a huge section of benches on the left-hand side of the building.

“And the human saves the day again,” Derek remarks as Stiles fishes the key out of the corpse’s robes. “Care to rub it in?”

“Maybe later.” Stiles unlocks the chains and pulls Derek to his feet. We should probably get out of here first.”

“Don’t mind me!” Scott shouts from the floor, covering his head as more of the ceiling starts to crumble and fall. “Just helpless and injured over here, no big deal!”

“Coming, buddy!” Stiles yells. He drops the blood-soaked katana on the floor and runs down the steps towards his friend. Derek shakes off his restraints and charges past the burning wreckage of the chandelier, bending down to scoop Isaac off the ground before making for the exit.

Outside, the four stand together on the hillside and watch the church go up in flames. The steeple crumples inward, and sparks explode into the night like a million fireflies swarming together before blinking out of existence.

Stiles’ face flickers in the glow, cheeks streaked with blood, clothes drenched. Scott’s teeth chatter in the cold as he leans on Stiles for support, and Isaac stares numbly as the distant sound of police sirens draws nearer.

Derek jerks himself out of the reverie, coughing to catch the others’ attention. “We need to leave before they get here,” he says.

“Agreed,” Scott says, wincing as he tries to stand up straight. He heads off over the far side of the hill. “Stiles?”

“Coming,” Stiles says, sparing a long glance at Derek before following. Derek watches him go.

“Derek?” Isaac tugs on the Alpha’s sleeve anxiously.

“Yeah. Let’s go.”

They disappear over the hill as the sky turns red and blue, illuminated by the light of the cruisers as they converge on the scene of carnage and destruction.

*****

“I’ve been waiting,” Stiles says when Derek slides in through his window later that night. He pats the bed invitingly. “We don’t have to be quiet. Dad’s still out.”

“I think I could love you,” Derek blurts out, immediately wishing an abyss would open up in the earth and swallow him whole. His cheeks redden with embarrassment, but he forces himself to not look away.

Stiles gapes at him. “Uh.”

“No, I mean, I don’t,” Derek is quick to amend. “Love you. I don’t. Not yet.” He scratches the back of his head. “But I could. If we keep doing this, I think I will.”

“Oh.” Stiles stands up slowly. His expression morphs into something complicated and vulnerable. “But we barely even like each other.”

“Yes,” Derek agrees, “but I don’t think it matters. Not to me.”

Stiles leans forward like he’s about to step closer, then hesitates and ends up pivoting back to the same spot. “Alright. So what are you saying, exactly?”

Derek shrugs. “I don’t know. I know this isn’t what we agreed on, or what we thought this was supposed to be. What do you want to do?”

“Jesus, Derek . . .” Stiles closes his eyes, head dipping downwards. His shoulders slump. “I can’t be responsible for your feelings,” he says after a long pause. “I have too many issues of my own, good as I am at hiding them. Do you have any idea how long it took to convince myself that you were actually looking at me the way I thought you were? I mean, look at yourself and then look at me.”

“You’re gorgeous,” Derek says immediately, forcefully. He can’t help himself. Stiles’ mouth quirks.

“I don’t know if I can be the person in charge of making sure your heart stays unbroken.”

“I’m not asking you to be.” Derek steps closer, carefully, like he’s trying not to spook a frightened deer. “All I need is for you to tell me if you think you could love me back. Someday. Even a little bit?”

Stiles frowns, rubbing at his elbow. He slowly drags his gaze up to meet Derek’s. “I think so. Yeah.” He grabs Derek’s wrist loosely. “Yes.”

Derek lets out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding in. “Okay.” Stiles smiles tentatively, cautiously hopeful.

“Okay.”

*****

The sheriff doesn’t say anything for a very long time. Derek fidgets nervously, looking down at the carpet. The clock ticks noisily on the wall.

“Give me one good reason why I shouldn’t arrest you right now,” the older man says eventually, voice ice cold.

Derek doesn’t hesitate. “You can if you want to,” he says honestly, a small part of him hoping the man actually will. “I won’t resist.”

The sheriff snorts, rubbing his temples and closing his eyes. “I need a drink.” He stands and goes to the nearby cabinet, returning with a pair of glasses and a bottle of whiskey. “Most of my department thinks you’re a criminal,” he says, pouring. “Some still think you’re a murderer.” He snatches up the fuller of the two cups and pushes the other towards Derek. He sits back in his chair with a soft groan. “I never believed that. Although you seem determined to convince me otherwise.”

“No, sir.”

“Hmm.” The sheriff takes a long swig, grimacing as he swallows the alcohol down. “You’ve had sex with my son,” he says, not phrasing it as a question.

“Yes,” Derek affirms, answering anyway. The sheriff glowers.

“And you are aware that he is legally a minor in the eyes of the state?”

“I am.” Derek rubs his palms together, choosing to focus on the glass in front of him rather than the other man’s face.

“I see.” The sheriff finishes his drink. “Does my son love you?” he asks unexpectedly.

Derek blinks. “No,” he answers after being prompted by an impatient glare. “At this point, he would probably stop seeing me if you ask him to.”

The older man laughs, and there’s not a trace of humor in the sound. “If you know Stiles half as well as I do, you know nothing in the world will stop him from doing exactly what he intends to do. Regardless of what I tell him.”

Derek nods. “You’re probably right.”

The sheriff refills his glass. “I know I’m right.” He glares at the wall, shaking his head. “You’re coming over this weekend,” he says eventually. “We’re going to eat, and we’re going to talk. That’s not negotiable.”

Derek’s shoulders slump in relief. He stands up and extends a hand. “Yes, sir.”

“I don’t like this, Hale,” the sheriff says, pointedly ignoring the handshake. “A better man would have looked for someone else. Someone who isn’t a child. A better man would have waited, at least.”

Derek swallows. “A better man would have,” he agrees.

*****

So they eat.

The sheriff grills out steaks, and Stiles fixes asparagus and sweet potatoes - “They’re healthier for you, Dad,” he insists when his father grumbles - and they sit together at the kitchen table and eat, like they’re already family.

Stiles averts his eyes from both Derek and his father, and he keeps his head down while he cuts into his food. He eats quickly, and the steaks bleed red onto the plate, juices dribbling down his chin when he chews.

The questions don’t start until after the meal, and they’re straightforward and to the point. It’s everything Derek was expecting, and they end the evening right back where they started; at grudging acceptance.

Afterwards, while Derek is washing up in the bathroom, he hears them talking together at the sink while they clean the dishes.

“If I thought for a moment that he was forcing you, he’d be behind bars in a second,” the sheriff says. “You know that, right?”

“Yes, Dad,” Stiles says, sounding fond and exasperated. “I know.”

There’s a long pause, filled only by the sound of running water and scrubbing. The sheriff clears his throat. “You can tell me, you know. If he’s pressuring you. If he’s pushing you too far.” He hesitates. “You’re not afraid of him, are you?” he asks quietly.

Listening closely, Derek can just imagine Stiles’ amused smile, the way his mouth might quiver as he holds back a laugh. “No, Dad. He’s afraid of me.”

**Author's Note:**

> First fanfic ever. Hope it wasn't awful!


End file.
